Eins und Zwei
by frog71
Summary: A little story on how Crawford started Schwarz.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Koyasu Takehito

The Elders had seemed amused, like good natured grandparents whose favourite grandchild had made a ridiculous yet endearing request. Brad Crawford could only hope there weren't any mind readers nearby, but as his visions had let on to him, they had agreed. A team, his very own. His one and only opportunity to break off from the dried up Elders and take over the world.. well, that made him sound too much like a megalomaniac for comfort. Take over Japan! or maybe America... Anyway the one thing he really wanted was to be free from the Elder's leash, but he knew he couldn't make it on his own, he had_ seen_ he couldn't make it on his own.

Of course he expected it to be hard work, he'd have to win his team's trust, their loyalty. Absolute obeisance would be the ideal thing, but it was too much like what The Elders were expecting from him, and if he was any sing of the success of that school of thought, he'd much rather try his luck within another path. For Brad Crawford actually believed in team work. If you were planning on to defeat an organization spawned from the very 9 circles of hell you needed people you could trust your back to.

He should have foreseen The Elders weren't going to make it a bit easier. He should have expected some kind of sick game to humiliate him, something to laugh at his effort, something to have him crawl back to them like an abused lap dog.

His team mates were The Elders best chance, give him scraps.

And he was the first! M-85

Code numbers were the only form of ID the talents got from Esset, real names forgot and forsaken for the most part.

It was much better than he had expected, and yet his stomach sank. Weren't mind readers supposed to be submissive?

So much for unquestionable obeisance.

A mind reader had sounded too good to be true. Their kind wasn't dispensed lavishly. They were quite profitable, but also rare and perishable. Most of them died soon, smothered under the weight of all the minds, all the thoughts, hate, love, confusion, paranoia, distress, all the pain inside them which wasn't even their own. They said, after a while, they couldn't really differentiate between their own thoughts and the others'. Like a radio getting every single station at once, the white noise inside their brains deafening.

Most of them needed sleeping pills just to get a few hours of unrestful slumber, their brains kept on working, kept on listening. They could never rest. Always tired. Always confused. They were easy to control. You got what you wanted from them until they wasted to a shadow and vanished.

Not, apparently, this feisty thing. A mop of tangled red hair, a black eye and attitude. Oozing spunk and curses in German. Crawford had to drag him -quite literally- out of his cell, through halls and corridors. He needed the help of one Sentinel from the 'Academy' an elegant name for the prison/laboratory in which Esset studied their talents until their souls and minds where shattered to pieces. If they were lucky they were assigned to a team before that happened, if they weren't they were deemed only as useful as lab rats.

One of the beefy sentinels got a broken, bloody nose. Crawford wasn't sorry.

Much less so because he had done it himself.

What had come over him he wouldn't know. He usually played goodie two-shoes. The perfect secretary, the perfect pawn. It was while they were dragging the kid, still spitting and cursing like a cornered, rabid, little, fluffly animal.

He had had a guinea pig once. He had got it as a present for his 10th birthday. His older brother had given him a weird, German name, Schul-something.. he couldn't remember now, but it was too difficult for his 10 year old self to pronounce so he had ended up calling it Schu-Schu.

He hadn't thought of his brother in a long time, at least he wouldn't admit it to himself. Anyway, the kid reminded him of the guinea pig, noisy and fluffy.

That's when he saw it, the sentry pushing the boy down, a menacing syringe in his hand probably chuck-full of something similar to a sedative but not as relatively harmless. A flash of fear in the boy's defiant blue eyes. Then, Blood on his hands.

He was standing over the boy -who knew how he had got there- a flawless boxer stance, it had been a precise short range right hook, his best move. The syringe broken in the floor, just as broken as the sentry's nose and self-confidence. And he had the feeling of muttering some nonsense about the kid being his now, and he being the only one with any right to touch him.

He had grabbed the boy by the arm and ran for it. Or at least as much as his really expensive shoes would allow him to, which wasn't much. (An ideal secretary had to look the part) They ended up walking really fast towards Crawford's car.

He had ruined everything.

The elders wouldn't be happy with this, it was too suspicious. And for what, a twig of a boy who reminded him of a guinea pig.

"What?"

"Oh" Oh yes, the reason for the fall of his still-born empire was now sitting next to him, while he drove away in some parody of a bank robbery escape. Great!

"I don't look like a mouse, I'm too good looking" said the guinea pig fixing his dirty, tangled bangs and checking his black eye in the rear-view mirror "you think too loud, you worry too much, you run like a sissy and I'm hungry... fix it"

"Firstly, Anyone with $400 dollar leather shoes would run like that! and Fix it? Fix it? how I'm supposed to do that! the original plan was going to a hotel, an Esset sponsored hotel mind you, we can't do that now as we are fugitives. You ruined everything!" Which Crawford knew was a preposterous, childish thing to say to a complete stranger.

It had been his own right hook which had ruined all, but nothing mattered now.

"Are you always this pessimistic? you are annoying me!"

"No, you are annoying me! and could you have the common courtesy of getting out of my head!"

"Getting out of your head! I would if I could! who would like to be in that mothballed place! booooooring! but I can't help it, you are too loud! YOU ARE ANNOYING!" And with that he slumped into his seat, forehead on his knees, eyes closed, hands in either side of his head.

Great! Now Crawford felt offended and -oddly enough- he was sorry he had said anything. First things first, he had to figure out how to keep them alive, how to sweet talk the elders without compromising them, they hadn't killed anyone, but a violent outburst was something Esset didn't let go off, not from a team leader. It was seen as the seeds of anarchy Esset had to smite. He was supposed to be a good spaniel already. Run obediently after his master's coat tails, fetch whatever dead thing he wanted even if it meant get mud, or water, or blood, or any other foreign substance all over his very expensive suits.

If his mind hadn't been racing trying to concoct believable excuses to give, he would have wondered at how easily he had gone from me to we. He already thought of them as an unit, the thought of ditching the boy to save himself didn't even cross his mind, it would be so easy to blame it all on the mind reader "he controlled me. I have no experience with mind readers, I couldn't push him off my head!"

But that thought never even suggested itself, in Brad Crawford's mind the one thought running in circles was "_we _are so screwed".

He had doomed himself, he had doomed this kid, all for nothing, and he knew somewhere in his mind there was a channel going over and over all the horrible ways in which the Elder's could hurt them, all what he had seem them do to others and he was probably transmitting in high definition to the kid sitting next to him.

"Annoying and morbid loud prick who runs like a sissy! They are not coming after us, you are not that much older than I am, and I'm 17. So stop calling me a kid! just stop this and feed me!"

"You don't know anything!. You are a kid! I'm supposed to be all for Esset's ways! hail and everything! not harming the staff right and left. Do you think they'll dismiss me with a pat on the back "oh! don't worry Brad, we all know what is having a bad day and breaking some of the staff's bones and noses" and well, they do know what it's like, but you are not supposed to do

it unless you are an old, rotting prune like they are!"

Crawford was suddenly startled by the mind readers clear blue eyes wide in surprise.

"What! what is it? Esset?.."

"Y- your name is Brad?" said the boy with a light hearted chuckle which startled Crawford even more, he only hoped the heat he felt on his cheeks wasn't showing.

"Absolutely not the point! And is Crawford for you!"

"Well... Brad" a expression he would grown used to in the next years fluttered over the teen's features. An easy, slimy, dangerous smirk. His tone, however, was that of a kid proud of some new trick he had performed successfuly "I took care of it! People like those beefy fools have little, quiet minds. Very unflavoury but easy to manipulate. They won't know what hit them, they'll probably think it was me getting back at them for smearing my perfect face with this stupid black eye. I even suggested they should stupidly delete the day's film from the security camera. I wanted to add an inclination to walk around on women's underware, but I thought I'd leave that for next time. So we live to fight another day!.. right Brad" an amused, fox-who-ate-all-the-chickens smirk this time, which Crawford quite liked.

"It's Crawford not Brad... That was... an excellent job.. Schuldig" He added as a inside joke, that was it! the name he couldn't remember earlier.

"What do you mean with that! how am I guilty of anything! you only want to show off your lanky german" The boy chuckled, the fox-like smirk in full force

"Really? I think it suits you perfectly"

"You do..?"

"I haven't got your name though, I guess you don't want me calling you M-85"

"Of course not, only the people from Esset do that!" A pause in which the mind reader vaguely wondered how was Crawford not one from Esset. Not surprisingly, he had set him apart.

After a thoughtful silence and in a quiet voice, more timid than he had let out in years he finally said "Can I keep "Schuldig" then?"

Crawford felt an unfamiliar tug at the end of his mouth, realised he was starting to smile and stifled it. A model Esset Pawn does not smile. ever. Unless it's evily in the sight of lots of blood.

"As you wish" he replied simply.

For the first time in years Brad Crawford was genuinely amused. Maybe it wasn't hopeless. Maybe he and his team would break free.

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Thanks so much for reading! \('w ')\


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Characters still belong to Koyasu Takehito.

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They had been stuck in a nondescript, cheap hotel in Berlin for five months, trusted only with the most trivial, trial missions. Crawford spirits sank, he was sure The Elders wouldn't extend their trial time much more, but they were still too far from working like a team, they couldn't go into the deep end together, at least not yet.

They spent most of their free time apart from each other, except when the activity required Crawford's credit card, like when buying pain killers for their talent-induced headaches, and getting Schuldig some new clothes. It had been rather unexpected to see just how much the kid loved clothes. Crawford was no fashion guru, plain suits did the job for him, but for someone as obsessed with fabric as Schuldig was he certainly had an unique taste Crawford could only call... questionable.

The way Schuldig had lit up when he located that incredibly hideous pair of leopard print pants, you'd think he was having an epiphany. and how in their way back to the hotel he wouldn't shut up about the robin egg's blue t-shirt he planned on to pair with the horrendous pants.

Robin egg's blue.. Crawford had no idea what color that was at the time, but once he saw Schuldig's "outfit" it's combination with leopard print and the teen's bright mane of orange hair had proved offensive to his myopic eyes.

As he sat now in their room's small coffee table, drinking his espresso and trying to read the newspaper, the outfit lay there, besides Schuldig's bed, mocking him... not only pets, but things too had a way of resembling their owners.

The first notes of a Queen song started playing. Crawford answered his cell phone. Recently he had learned to answer his phone really fast, hoping Schuldig wasn't familiar with Queen. he'd have to get around to change his ringtone, a Brahms symphony, maybe Chopin.

A powdery, sickly sweet voice greeted him at the other end of the line.

"Why Crawford dear!, Congratulations! we have been hearing such good things about you boys!"

Crawford's muscles tensed, it was not common for any of The Elders to call him in person.

"I'm only too glad to be of service to you Madam"

The old lady giggled, a sticky sound in the American's ears.

"Always such a gentleman. We have such good news for you! We have decided to make you one of the main Esset contacts in Japan! our last team, poor things, we had to get rid of them. It was quite unfortunate." her tone was that of an old lady telling him how she had broken her favourite tea pot. but tea pots could always be replaced, her tone brightened "but now we have got you two! oh! we even got this charming little flat ready, you boys will love it! right in the heart of Tokyo! isn't that exiting!

"I'm... honoured" He was not.

"Your plane tickets will be there by 8 P.M. Oh! and I was wondering dear, how is the new kid getting along? Is he well mannered? Kids are so rebellious these days, times have changed ever so much since I was a little girl"

The American youth glanced at the hotel's twin beds, his own neatly made up. Even when he was staying at a hotel, his routine consisted of making up his bed first thing in the morning just like when he had been a boxer, old habits die hard-

the other bed was a complete mess, tangled, fiery orange hair the only thing giving away the bed's occupant.

Truth was, while they had completed the last mission it had been a technical disaster. He could have died, in fact, he had seen himself die. The only thing standing between him and death had been that opportune if disturbing whisper of his visions. Schuldig had been reckless, haphazard and too volatile, he hardly listened to a thing Crawford said, and if he did, chances were he'd decide to do the exact opposite. It had almost cost Crawford his life.

"Certainly there's room for improvement, but it's nothing to trouble yourself with Madam, I will see to it" he answered in his well rehearsed impartial, stone cold voice

"Oh! I'm sure you will dear" she sounded disappointed "We'll have one of the office boys contact you when you are settled, we will see you soon" threatening words in the mouth of any elderly woman

"It will be our pleasure" the line clicked leaving him with a sour aftertaste.

Japan was it? in the heart of Tokyo nonetheless! Crawford wasn't at all exited.

Esset never sent Telepaths -mind readers as they called them- to big cities. Not if they were interested in keeping them. They were stashed as far away from people as possible, used when they were needed and then put away. Rinse and Repeat until they wore down to shambles.

Their kind didn't last long under normal circumstances, they did even less so if forced to cope with an ocean of human minds, it made them seasick and confused.

Schuldig was no exception, a few times in their little shopping outings, the young German's enthusiasm about ghastly coloured shirts had been put out by migraines which made him so dizzy he could hardly go up a flight of stairs on his own, and in those weeks when the majority of the rooms on their floor were occupied he'd mumble things to himself without noticing; breakfast in the hotel or go to a café? his bike had broken he'd have to take the train instead, bother!. It had been such a stupid life choice to marry Alex and what was this nonsense about the stock market in today's paper...

What made other minds break, however, seemed to only fuel Schuldig's difficult moods and stubbornness.

The teen did justice to every stereotype about the wrath of gingers. He was not only recalcitrant in the battle field but also in their little pseudo-home/hotel life.

If he was feeling well enough to stand, he did whatever he wished to do, whenever he wanted to. Crawford was not the kid's mother, he was the ruthless leader of an Esset team. He figured as long as the teen was always ready for missions he could do whatever he pleased with his free time, even if that was sleep all day to spend all night out buried in some fishy, dilapidated, third rate night club, drinking and probably doing more drugs than the ex-boxer knew the names of.

If the teen had survived Esset's Academy of horrors keeping such an obnoxious chunk of spunk, the American was sure he could survive whatever crawled in the murky depths of Berlin's night life.

All this, however, and in spite of his better judgment, did nothing to stop him from worrying, which was a very new, unpleasant feeling to him, at least when it came to worry about another human's well being, he didn't like it. Feelings were only a detriment, just as having half his team breaking down in the middle of a mission because it was too exhausted to function, If wild partying was what kept Schuldig sane, he wasn't going to take it away from him, not unless he could give him something else to replace it with, for he was sure what the teen liked best about those nights out was the oblivion he got as a reward, the sleep he was denied when he was sober.

Crawford didn't know if call himself lucky, for no matter how hard to deal with the red-head was, no matter how drunk, high or disoriented he got, the young telepath and those leopard print pants of his always came back. Crawford would always get out of his morning shower to find Schuldig curled up in his bed, sleeping with a pained expression on his face, but safe. His clothes folded in the chair beside him, or as close to folded as the teen could manage depending on his levels of intoxication.

He had to wonder why such a willful creature didn't try to run away. It had happened before. Those who became team leaders had clear instructions to.. dispose.. of whoever tried it, in as much a painful, imaginative way as possible. Home videos of the bloody deeds encouraged.

Deserters didn't get a quick, painless death. No one in Esset's claws did.

He doubted Schuldig would cower because of that or any kind of threat and not try an escape if it was what he really wanted.

What would Crawford do if Schuldig went for it, the suicide mission, the desperate flight?

He pushed up his glasses, it was better not to think about non-existent problems. What required his focus now was to get Schuldig some kind of wall? filter? what exactly, he had no idea, but he had to find something.. anything. The red-head wouldn't last a month in the middle of Tokyo the way he was now, which was exactly what The Elders wanted. They hoped the perpetual white noise buzzing inside Schuldig's head would consume him just like maggots eating him raw.

Crawford got a little blue pill from the dresser, pain killers, filled a glass of water and let them near the teen's bed. He would go and prepare for their trip, they'd need suitcases and it was better to buy them himself, none of his suits was to be encased in dreadful, neon coloured prints.

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Thank you for reading this far!


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much for your kind reviews \(; w;)/

Disclaimer: Characters still belong to Koyasu Takehito.

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><p>"This is fucking stupid, and the smoke is burning my eyes!" complained the mop of orange hair.<p>

"This is fucking stupid but it is working. You will sit and keep on visualizing the bloody peaceful blue light as I've been instructing you all morning" The spectacled man rarely cursed but by now his patience was reaching it's limit, and his head was starting to hurt, both things seemed to happen more frequently now that the guinea pig under his protection wasn't an useless bundle of fried nerves and mixed identities 24/7.

"We are leaving for Ireland in a fortnight. We need to be prepared" the older man said as he rubbed his temples. He wasn't looking forward to that trip. Esset was treating him like a fool again, and he could do nothing but be a good lap dog and pretend he wasn't anything but pleased.

"Don't care! this is stupid, and creepy and it's making everything smell like an old lady" the teen sniffed at the sleeve of his red jacket "I can't get rid of the old lady smell, Brad! I'll have to burn all my clothes" which could only improve the boy's wardrobe, thought the American, glad the red fluff couldn't hear his thoughts anymore.

"Yes, I can imagine the excruciating torture it must be for you, however, let me remind you we are expected at an Insane Asylum, do you really want those people mixing with you? What would happen if you lost yourself to one of them? Sit down." A pause while they stared at each other "It is an order, Schuldig!"|

"It is an order, Schuldig" the teen mimicked but he sat again with a soft plop and a dirty look. Reminders of the insane asylum always brought him back to practice, neither of them wanted to repeat the scene from that night some months ago, staring a raging lunatic instead of a young house wife, even if Crawford thought he could hardly be more aghast at the former option than he had been at the later.

After the unsavory scene from that night, the young seer had moved all his contacts, which weren't many, cashing owed favours he had saved greedily for years, they had been his life-lines, keys to doors that would only open once and he had promised himself he'd only turn to in a case of the upmost necessity.

Apparently in the months they had been together and known only to his subconscious until the very moment he found himself writing messages he hoped didn't sound as desperate as he actually felt, Schuldig had become a necessity. Who knew. Feelings were a detriment, he reminded himself, but the thought didn't seem to carry as much weight as it had before.

At the end, his urgent e-mails came back to him with a compilation of dubious techniques to keep unwanted consciousness away as if they were evil spirits, create walls around their minds, make insubstantial thoughts seem definite, something they could reach for and keep in a jar if they so wished, although, he knew no good could possibly come from bottling up the essence of creatures such as them. He liked to imagine their withered souls as a condensed curse, something that could only bring doom and devastation.

Yes, finally, everything was going according to plan. He could have smiled, but Brad Crawford never smiled, his glasses took it upon themselves to glitter evilly instead.

What looked like nothing but metaphysic drivel was giving Schuldig control over his powers and Crawford was learning how not to get tangled in the teen's spider threads. Now, he could feel them weaving themselves all around him, it had taken months of work, but he had finally learned how not to touch them unless he wanted the little spider's attention.

The training involved lots of seating in a lotus position, outlandish mantras, ludicrous crystals, -to channel and increase their inner forces- according one of the pdf files he had been sent, visualizations of pastel colored lights floating around them and those foul smelling incenses which burned their eyes, dried their throats, and gave a stench of old potpourri to every single one of their earthly belongings including their food.

Crawford had figured Schuldig couldn't love anything more than his ugly clothes, but he had been wrong; Schuldig loved his hair best of all. The narcissistic teen could spend up to three hours trying to get rid of, as he put it, the old lady smell that clung to his tick orange hair with even more tenacity than it did to everything else.

Schuldig loathed the exercises only a little more than Crawford did, the American disliked to feel ridiculous, and he really didn't know what was smoke and mirrors, what was the idea his contacts had of an april fools' joke, and what was helping them. His dignity was not speaking to him for the time being, at least not until he stopped going around barefooted chanting gibberish at the small hours. Ignoring his hurt pride for once, he made sure they did everything. If humiliation was the price, they'd pay it! even if sometimes it seemed a very high price to Crawford, only to have the young telepath be his egotistic, devious self. The kid was more profitable that was true, but his usefulness seemed to grow in direct proportion to his spunk.

Crawford was glad there were walls between their minds at last, there were things he didn't care to share with the redhead. Things he didn't even want to admit to himself; like how helpless he had felt those first weeks in Tokyo. Schuldig had been in such bad shape he didn't remember much of those days, and Crawford would rather keep it that way, he didn't want anyone to know just how frightened he had been.

Fear was useless, Brad Crawford knew that and being nothing if not practical, he had disposed of it years ago along with so many other petty, meaningless things, like his conscience or his morals. He had buried them all in some forgotten place where they couldn't touch him, where they could fester and their putrid fumes could make him vicious, cruel, stronger.

So how could something long dead and rotting re-appear so suddenly? But there it was, pounding at his door like a zombie in a trashy tv series.

He hated the way it had made his heart beat against his ribs, the way it put a bottomless void where his stomach had been, the dry knot in his throat which felt like a rope around his neck.

They had been at their new apartment for three weeks when it happened. Right in the middle of Tokyo just as he had feared. Right in the middle of madness.

At first Schuldig had talked -with shameless enthusiasm and more details than Crawford ever cared for and wouldn't be able to unsee for years to come- about the kind of entertainment a young man could find among the most racy Shibuya nightclubs, but any hope the redhead had of experiencing them first hand had dissipated as soon as they were in the crowded Tokyo subway.

It had taken 20 minutes for Crawford to figure out their destination, deciphering kanji he had never seen before, trying to work out the mysteries of the subway ticket machine which looked like something you'd see, in say, the Tardis.

Schuldig had been trying to stay focused and not lose himself, but if it had been bad at the airport, entering the closed up subway was like upsetting a beehive, every mind around him buzzed and stung him. He had been sick to the distress of many a well dressed lady who had to jump what was left of the german's breakfast to reach the platform. Schuldig spent the rest of his first day in Tokyo smelling of vomit and looking even worse than he felt, walking besides Crawford, meek and quiet, grabbing at the sleeve of the older man's suit sometimes, like a little child would.

The American made no comment, but he poured himself on the search of their new address with a new sense of urgency. Once there it wasn't much better and soon the teen had gone back to his well known cycle. Drinking himself senseless and sleeping it off.

In Germany the teenager's night time routine had been a nuisance, disappearing at night in random clubs and turning up drunk in the morning. Now the kid didn't have the strength to go clubbing. Crawford didn't know why, but having the german become more of an empty shell angered him more than any of his previous misdemeanors had.

And then, Brad Crawford finally came face to face with the corpse of his long forgotten humanity.

After a long day and a messy business meeting, fighting a slight headache, he went into their apartment, the ruined jacket of one of his favourite suits in his hand. He expected to find the teen curled up on the couch of their little living room. Schuldig never slept in his bedroom if Crawford was out, and among the things Crawford wasn't about to admit to anyone, not even to himself, was how he found that little gesture oddly comforting.

But that night he had found the boy awake. In the kitchen. Cooking.

How something so common place could be so terrifying.

Their kitchen had seen nothing but ready-made bento boxes from the convenience store and now, carefully arranged in the table in perfect japanese fashion, there were half a dozen japanese dishes the American didn't even know the names of.

At the sight of them his dead heart made a remarkable attempt to escape his ribcage.

Few minutes before he would have sworn he didn't even have a heart, dead or otherwise, not when he had coldly, guiltlessly pulled the trigger at that business meeting. He had taken off his jacket before entering the subway because It had been drenched with the blood of that young lady. She had been very pretty, a little thing no older than 19, in a delicate crocheted mint sweater of the kind grandmothers knit for their favourite granddaughters, light brown hair softly framing her face. He hadn't know her name, it didn't matter and Crawford didn't care. Her sweater had turned red. His expensive suit was ruined. He had no heart.

So, logically, because Brad Crawford wasn't anything if not logical, the scared to death thing trying to break through his chest had to be something entirely different.

Schuldig had turned to him with a sweet, lovely smile plastered over his face, but it wasn't the face it was meant for, and it made him look grotesque as if a mask had melted over his features, blank eyes looked past him as the redhead asked how his day had been, chirping in flawless japanese with a marked Osaka accent Crawford recognized as belonging to the dainty housewife living in the apartment below theirs.

His stomach sunk at the sight of the boy's unseeing eyes, their blue fire was all gone, snuffed out by someone Crawford only knew vaguely but had discarded as cloying and bland.

Both, Schuldig and Mrs Ishizaka spent most of their time at home, the telepath's consciousness blending with hers for days until he couldn't push her away.

Almost chocking in the deep breath he tried to take and ignoring the long dead thing pounding at his ribcage as he had ignored so many other, much less metaphoric dead things in front of him, he smiled what was a very poor try at a reassuring smile and reached for his last chance.

"That's it Schuldig, you need to rest… come on." that was as comforting as Crawford knew how to be.

"B.. but why? I'm not tired. I have been waiting for you to have dinner together, I even got your favourite beer!" and the teen smiled up at him, that ill-fitting smile.

Brad Crawford was always cold and composed under the most pressing circumstances, but for some reason this was making him sick, fear had managed to dig up from it's grave and his subconscious, having to deal with something it hadn't encountered for years, chose incoherent anger as the effective, optimal response.

"Schuldig! I'm ordering you to go to your room. Don't you understand?" The American said taking the teenager by the arm, anger and fear oozing from every word.

That was when the alarming tears started, and the reluctant husband made it even worse by trying to drag this cooing young bride to the room of the german teenager. The redhead was immediately distressed at being taken to a room which he knew wasn't the same as his husband's.

"if you'd tell me what I did wrong I would fix it!" drip, drip went the tears "why are you so mad at me? you are hurting me! "

Crawford realized he was holding onto Schuldig's shoulder so hard he was starting to leave marks, he let go among more blubbering and sniffing.

" I'm not- " Crawford knew defeat when he saw it, and this was it."I'm... sorry" he said trying to calm down enough to use his most formal, plastic tone, one he'd use with the real Mrs. Ishizaka "I'm tired" He finished lamely, clenching the bridge of his nose as his stomach took another leap into nothingness.

Schuldig had been his one opportunity. His last chance.

He had to wonder if some of the other seers had seen something about this, or if it was only a sick joke from the universe, how at that business meeting one of the Elder's lap dogs -much like himself- had been inquiring after Schuldig as if the kid were a very troublesome pet they knew Crawford would have to give up sooner or later because it kept chewing expensive shoes and refused to be toilet trained. They'd have to put him down at some point, he said between the lines, and Crawford nonchalantly had answered he'd see to it personally if there ever was a reason for it.

Was this a reason?. He knew for most of Esset it was.

Appear conforming was something he knew how to do well. To the eyes of Esset, although efficient, he had always been too small a fish, his visions couldn't be controlled, not to mention 85% of them revolved around himself instead of general events or other people. Team him with a telepath who was too much trouble for everybody else and would probably break like an old toy before he reached the age of 20 was the way The Elders had to give him a small bone.

Crawford knew they weren't one of their main teams, not really, they were just an entertainment, unimportant, and of little consequence. The better for him, he wasn't an idiot, he knew he couldn't fight against Esset alone, much less if he set red flags that'd make him interesting to their eyes. No one who was deemed too interesting -too powerful, too ambitious- lived long.

He needed time. He needed his team. The next think they'd notice would be the small fish gobbling them up.

But his first and only piece was shattering before his eyes. Crawford thought he was going to be sick, Esset's protocol would command him to put a bullet into Schuldig's head as soon as he saw this degree of deterioration, all Crawford did was put the teen to bed. he had to allow him into his own bedroom, which calmed the boy considerably, and even lent him one of his shirts to sleep in when once composed the redhead had complained he couldn't possibly sleep dressed but couldn't find any of his night dresses, everything looked so.. unfamiliar today...

Crawford had spent the rest of the night napping at his desk, and writing to disagreeable, dangerous pricks who owed him favours, and many more who didn't but wouldn't turn away the once in a life time chance of having Brad Crawford owe them.

Morning found him still at his desk.

As expected, 3 in 4 replies advised him to discard such damaged goods, the others were ludicrous, they mentioned crystals and one helpfully suggested burning some herbs would _/open quote/_ purify _/unquote/_ the _/open quote/_ air waves_ /unquote/_ enough for Schuldig to regain his sense of self.

How could they think him so gullible? but he had nothing else. If he was going to pace around their apartment all day in a sleep deprived haze like a trapped beast, he could do it burning sage and mint around, just to establish beyond any doubt Schuldig wasn't the only one who had lost his mind the previous night.

He hadn't stopped until 6 in the evening, when exhaustion finally got to him, He threw himself on the couch, his arm over his eyes. He was tired but he wanted to keep occupied, if he didn't he'd have to start thinking, and he refused to think about what would have to be done if Schuldig didn't come back, he didn't want to destroy the young man, and in an alarming revelation Crawford would take to the grave with him before he said it aloud to anyone, he realized; if he put a bullet though Schuldig's head he might as well shot himself right after.

Childishly, he thought feelings were stupid, and guilt was stupid, and he was a fucking idiot.

Lost in his morbid homicide-suicide thoughts he didn't realize the guinea pig was up and about.

"Brad? I can't hear all what you are thinking but I don't like the feel of it" the teen said walking towards him and before Crawford could say anything he was crawling up on his lap "hey, did we have fun last night?" the boy added in a wanton tone Crawford thought shouldn't ever come from someone as young.

"Of course not!" he managed, getting hold of the teen's shoulders and pushing him back firmly, relief mutating his fear into outrage at once "I'd never-"

A light laugh cut him off "You should see your face! I'm only teasing!" and the red fluff retreated to his own corner of the couch "I_ know_ old Brad is too vanilla to do anything like that" the slimy smirk was back where it belonged. "let's see, the last thing I remember... I think I was frying croquettes?"

"You said you can't hear me?" said Crawford raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I can hear you, as usual you are too loud, but I can't understand you, there's static over everything like a bad tuned radio, so I only get little bits and pieces" for a second Crawford thought he saw something glitter in Schuldig's eyes, like the spark of a shared private joke, but it was gone in a moment "static is good, I can hear myself better… What is that smell?"

"Never mind the smell, I'm going to sleep, eat your croquettes. Also, you can try to be useful for once and keep burning this" said Crawford tossing his last bundle of herbs to the teen.

"So, you can burn weed but I can't?"

"Don't be ridiculous! it's only sage. Keep burning it, understood?"

"Understood" Schuldig said in mocking seriousness, as he sat there and started burning the bundle as instructed. That was good enough for Crawford.

He hadn't reached his bedroom door when he heard Schuldig's voice again, all mocking tones quite gone

"Brad?"

"Yes?"

"we will mess them up, we'll crush them. We aren't stupid little fish" The teen said while staring at the smoke drifting up from the dry heap in his hands.


End file.
